Tag Archives: cookies

My dad hates getting up early in the morning. If left alone, he’d probably sleep until 11am every day. But he did it. He did it every damn morning of my childhood, weekends too. Rising to darkness, he’d shower, iron his shirt and slacks (my father can press clothes with a tailor’s precision) dress himself, eat, and get out the door to bake the bread that fed our family—all in a half hour.

I’d rise about an hour later, but I felt his presence every morning in the steamy bathroom that trapped the smell of the cologne he’s worn for 30 years, the light hum of the voices on the morning news he’d left on in the other room, and, without fail, from the sight of the crumb-filled, half-finished Tetley tea that sat on his side of the kitchen table.

It’s curious that my dad drank Tetley in the morning (and still does). Persian, he comes from a tea culture. Tea is the national drink for a reason: Iran’s coastal climate and topography are perfect for tea cultivation, and Iranians drink tea after every meal. The tea is often brewed in glass pots with a cylindrical infuser and poured into small, slender, filigreed glasses. An Iranian tea set is quite the vision, the ceremony of drinking from it an aesthetician’s wet dream. The glasses seem to deliver a cautionary message: The hot glass will scorch your fingertips if you drink the tea when it is too hot for its flavor to be appreciated. The aroma of Iranian black tea is nothing like stateside tea, and the ritual surrounding drinking it brings together families, friends, and strangers. When there is tea, there are no divides; Iranian Muslims and Jews sip together in the tea houses that are found on every corner (though any divides are sensationalized anyway). Place a lump of pure cane sugar on your tongue, sip, close your eyes, breathe, let the marijuana-like high roll over you, and repeat—this is how Persian tea should be enjoyed. Drink it in the summer, no matter the temperature; drink it in the winter to thaw chilled bones. Drink it with rock candy (the confection originated in Iran, not at seaside American candy shops); swirl your crystal-laden stick in the warm amber liquid and let it melt. Drink it with rose-scented pistachio nougat. Continue reading →

I have writer’s block. I have too much on my mind to be creative, so whatever I write here to take up space would be a bunch of feathery BS. No one likes feathery BS.

I don’t think writer’s block is all bad—it gives me the headspace to create other things—but I’m not going to go too far into it since I’m not really a Writer writer.

I do still want to share this recipe for Pistachio Baci di Dama, though, for three reasons: 1. I’m sick of waiting for the words to come back. 2. I saw a two-pack of them being sold at Hell on Earth (Trader Joe’s, for the uninitiated), so I feel a trend coming on and I want to beat it. 3. Baci di Dama means “lady’s kisses” in Italian, and posting the recipe any closer to Valentine’s Day would be way too cute. 729 Layers, Inc. doesn’t tolerate treacle.

When I was 12 years old, I became convinced I was going to die before I reached college. The idea presented itself in a dream and that was all the prophecy I needed. Thinking that it was my truth, I held my secret close; no one would understand. I reached driving age and still hadn’t died, so I delayed getting my license for a year; a car accident seemed like a reasonable way for a 16-year-old to go. That’s why I still hate driving.

Years later, I now fear the opposite—I fear that I’m cursed with never-ending life. I’ve had too many scares to still be here and my body constantly surprises me with how strong it is, so I must be immortal. This is a much scarier truth.

These irrational thoughts on my own mortality were going through my head as I sat on the floor of my cubicle at work on a Saturday, Halloween, two weeks ago, my knees clutched tightly against my chest, the pulsating beats of my music reverberating violently against my tympanic membrane; like when I have migraines, I was trying to drown out the hollow white noise of my own between-the-ear nausea. I didn’t know what was wrong, but I kept the trash near me in case of emergency, and I just sat there, alone, turning up the volume every so often until I feared my eardrums would burst.

Today, at 12:57 pm, the sun will do something too earth science-y for me to explain eloquently, and it will be spring.

This is my fourth post that mentions the Persiannewyear, Nowruz, which coincides with the first day of spring. A fourth post is probably excessive considering that only a few people (if any) who read this blog, besides my father (Hi, dad!), probably celebrate the holiday.

But this year, I need this holiday. I need the feeling and the brightness and the newness that it represents, at least, as my soul, body, and mind—mostly my mind—struggle to feel signs of life and to see green instead of grey.

Tuesday, New Year’s Day, I plucked the last beaded decoration off my Christmas tree, wishing I could keep it there just one more week, maybe two. Lights were unstrung, the tree went away, and the living room was restored to its normal twinkle-less state. Although I hadn’t slowed down and realized it was actually the holiday season until about a week before Christmas day, I found myself wishing the light would never leave. I’m not a Christmas fanatic. You know the type. That’s not me. But with the tree take-down, I felt myself wishing I were. I felt like I did as a kid going back to school after the December break. Christmas fanatic or not, the holiday is, for me, that little something to look forward to. Because after that, it is winter. Not winter-solstice-technical winter, but the winter you can feel, from skin to bone.

I’m cynical but optimistic.
Silly yet overly analytical.
I’m genuine and sincere yet bitingly sarcastic.
A pushover but one whose tough as nails.
I’ll laugh hysterically over a quirky joke but loathe another’s sense of humor.
I love giving gifts but feel uncomfortable receiving them myself.
I long to travel yet never make the time to do so.
I’ll wake up at 5:30 am on the weekend but wear half-pajamas all day and play in the kitchen, never moving more than 10 paces.
I’ll cry over the ending of a movie but never shed a tear at a funeral.
I’m loving but difficult to love.
I seek clarity but sometimes feel like I’m living in the dark.

I’m complicated. In cookie speak, I can be chewy and crunchy. Not to be confused with soft (say, like, lebkuchen) and hard (say, like, biscotti).

A classic combination. The base of my favorite summer dessert, which is also the simplest. It involves firing up the grill, rubbing down super-ripe peaches with a little bit of olive oil (yes, olive, not vegetable), grilling them until slightly charred, and topping them with various versions of cream: plain whipped cream, almond whipped, rosemary or basil-infused cream, melting ice cream, whatever. Then, I like to sprinkle them with crumbled gingersnaps. And that’s it. I can end the post here. It takes 10 minutes, and it enhances peaches enough without transforming them. And that’s what summer cooking should be about — taking fruit and veg and working with them minimally. It’s so nice to be able to appreciate the season’s bounty for what it is: sun-ripened and sweet with a tart edge.

Fort Point is now home to some lunchtime giants. I know first hand that a swooping line of hungry nine to fivers occupies Flour without end from 11-3. Their patience comes from visions of tender lamb sandwiched with spunky-sweet chutney, a palm-sized oreo cookie, and a seltzer to wash it all down. The queue at Channel Café is similarly long and proof that Fort Pointers just don’t pack lunches. Why would they? For those looking for a real power hour, though, Sportello is sit-down chic with its lunch counter style and all. It’s mod and clean, almost stark in its whiteness, but somehow the space also proves warm and charming with its friendly (and very “Boston”) servers, place mat menus and casual, up-close and personal open kitchen. Sure, there’s a “takeout” bakery in the same space, but if you have the time, the counter experience makes the meal.

I think cookies – especially simple drop cookies, back-of-the-package classics – are the comestible that triggers the most memories for me. I'm sure it's the same for most, baker or non-baker. It's the universal pastry. Every culture, every holiday, every family has a cookie. I fondly remember the tender ma’amoul we would purchase at the local Armenian bakeries when I was a kid just as much as I do putting out my own creations on a Santa-shaped plate every Christmas Eve. The cookie was the first thing I learned to make, the first thing I could call my own. I bonded with my mother over the Toll House recipe; she nearly always had to stir in the chips as my little arm cramped from fatigue. I gave holiday gifts of oatmeal-cranberry-white chocolate; they were puffy and cakey but, at the time, they were my signature. Not a special occasion went by without some sort of celebratory biscuit.

What always seemed odd to me, though, was the prevalence of “cookie dough” in food culture. The pleasure of cookie dough for me was its ability to transform from molded clay into chewy saucers, and I would marvel at the magic in front of the oven door with flashlight in hand. Sure, I would take a taste of the tacky leftovers at the bottom of the mixing bowl to understand them, to see if they tasted just so; but more than a morsel never passed my lips. If anything, I would fight off the anticipation of the seemingly long 8-10 minutes by munching through the leftover chocolate chips. It wasn’t the fear of raw egg that spoiled that childhood (or really, any-age) joy for me; I just didn’t get it.

Today is December 1st and, for me, the start of the holiday season. Every year through high school and college, I woke up on the Friday after Thanksgiving at 3 am. With the previous evening’s meal barely digested, I threw on my red and black and hightailed it to my job at Staples. There, I was routinely greeted by a line of wide-awake yet far from friendly electronics mavens and eBay aficionados, staring me down as if I had the authority to let all of them in early. There was something very satisfying about locking the door behind me and smiling at the vultures who still had an hour to stew. For some, this tradition ushers in the holiday season, but I subscribe to the Nordstrom philosophy. Can I finish the season of “thanks” before I jump into the season of “give-me?”

Now, I am no Scrooge. When December rolls around, I am ready for holiday cheer. Today, if I walk into a store to find a bell-ringing, velour-suited Santa, I’ll keep my cool. If I hear fa-la-la-la-las on the radio, I’ll turn it up, and I’ll even sing along. And at 22, I will proudly announce that I still enjoy watching “The 25 Days of Christmas” on ABC Family, especially Santa Claus is Coming to Town (it’s a classic!). Judge away. The harvest season is over. My beloved Macouns are becoming mealy. The trees are bare. I can move on.